The Spell that Wrote Itself

Draeven sat by the well, sunlight warming the cool stone of the bench, the open pages of his notebook fluttering slightly in the breeze. He bit his lip in concentration, scrawling another word on the page, then chewed on the end of his pencil. He lifted his gaze, searching for inspiration, surveying the empty gardens of the citadel, a square of green vegetation in walls of carved marble. Towers of ivory-colored stone rose around it like the points of a crown. A paved marble path led to the towering heart of the citadel through doors of wood carved and gilded to represent symbols of elemental magic.

Draeven wrote another word, frowning, unhappy with his rhyme. He flicked a lock of dark red hair from his mismatched eyes, one blue and one green. Both stared at the page as if willing the spell to work and the words to align in the right way. But, this time, eloquence wasn’t enough.

A swirl of dark smoke condensed into existence, coalescing into a human shape. A relatively young man, with dark hair, his eyes glinted a deep shade of purple. His irises were just slightly iridescent and shimmering. The sorcerer smiled, bemused.

“Writing in the sun now, are we? Did you get tired of being so pale?” Nathaniel mocked. Draeven rolled his eyes.

“I was writing a growth spell. It seemed logical to be in the gardens,” the spellwriter said calmly. Nathaniel sat down on the bench with a flourish and scoffed.

“Who asked for a growth spell?”

“Melinda. She’s been given garden duty for the month,” Draeven answered, returning to his work. Nate lifted an eyebrow, gazing at the notebook.

“Honestly, not your best work.”

“It’s not as easy as it looks, you know,” Draeven said irritably.

“Nonsense. You’ve written pyrotechnic spells that put Archmages to shame, weather spells that rocked castle walls and a shield spell even I couldn’t break. Then there was that alphabetical ordering spell that still stops anyone from misplacing books in the library. ” He paused. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Of what?” Draeven asked, lifting his gaze from the page again.

“Of writing spells you can’t ever use.” Nate answered bluntly. Draeven hesitated, unsure of what to say.

“I’m used to it. I just wasn’t born with magic,” he said, shrugging.

“Well, you’ve got more influence than any of the actual apprentices. To be honest, it’s probably best you can’t use your own spells. You’d be terrifyingly good at it.” Nathaniel said with a friendly smile. He was often mocking, always ready to tease, but sometimes he could be kind. Draeven smiled.

“Thanks,” the spellwriter answered, blushing slightly. Nathaniel grinned.

“Of course, you’re running out of inspiration again. It seems to happen at the same time every year, doesn’t it?” Draeven lifted an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side.

“Actually, it does. And if I remember correctly... it’s also round about the time you ask me for a ‘Spell to continue another’. Right?”

“Right. It doesn’t have to be very powerful. This spell is pretty amazing, and it only has to last for another year anyway.”

“You’ve told me that every year since I’ve been here. Can you still not tell me what the spell actually is?”

“Can, but won’t,” Nate answered cheerfully.

There was no point arguing, so Draeven scrawled a few lines on the next page, tore it out, and handed it to Nathaniel. His apparent lack of inspiration didn’t seem to apply to the spell he wrote every year.

“Thanks! I’ll see you later, I have to read up on Archmage voodoo tricks,” the sorcerer said, winking, before vanishing in a cloud of dark smoke. Draeven laughed. ‘Archmage voodoo tricks’ was the way that Nathaniel chose to refer to advanced magic, something that frustrated the actual Archmages to no end.

Draeven gave up on his growth spell. For some reason his usual methods didn’t seem to be working and he needed a Thesaurus anyway. Sliding the worn pencil into the pocket of his jeans, he started towards the steps. He passed through two venerable oak trees and passed a dragon formed from an enchanted rosebush.

He climbed the steps and knocked. For any mage the doors would open without a touch, and as such no doorknob or lock was needed. But for a mortal without magical capacity, the heavy wooden doors may as well have been a stone wall.

They swung open, revealing the Lady in Red, an elegant sorceress from the Archmage conclave. Dressed in a robe of shimmering crimson woven from seemingly vaporous fabric, she smiled amiably.

“Our prized poet! Welcome. I was just about to call for you,”

“Can I do anything to help?” Draeven asked, hoping she didn’t want an enchantment written, repeated or maintained. He doubted he could handle something an Archmage needed if he couldn’t even write that growth spell.

“How nice of you to offer. As it happens, I have a question,” she said, beckoning him in with a satin gloved hand. She walked purposefully through the marble corridor, obviously expecting him to follow; so he followed. The Lady recited thoughtfully.

“Magic wrought, be echoed hence,
Spell once cast, be cast again.”

“Simple words, but effective ones. Your own?” she asked.

Draeven nodded even though her back was turned. They were his own. That was the spell he gave to Nathaniel, every year… the Lady walked on with a purposeful stride.

“I understand that you write for several people, quite often. As it happens, that short verse has been used every year, to continue a powerful spell.”

As they approached twin doors wrought out of copper, carved in the motif of thousands of intertwined serpents, Draeven sighed. It sounded like Nate had been using his magic to maintain a spell that went against the will of the Archmages. The Lady in Red continued, the doors swinging open in front of her to reveal the library while the train of her dress swirled round her stride like crimson smoke.

“This spell, although not directly hostile, is of an unknown nature to us. One of the apprentices has been shielding its nature, and as such we cannot discern its shape.” The Lady stopped halfway through the library, spinning abruptly to face Draeven, with dramatic flair.

“We understand that you are not directly responsible for the way that others choose to use your enchantments. However, as you are better placed to find the person responsible, we propose that you attempt to dissuade them before we are forced to intervene,” she said silkily.

“I have an idea of who it is. If you can tell me where it is being cast from, I can talk to him.” Draeven said, nodding.

The lady smiled, dissolving into a swirling pool of blood red smoke. It became circular, shimmered with magic, and opened into a portal. The center of the ethereal door was dark, seeming to suck the light from the candles in the library.

Draeven hesitated and stepped forward, passing through the rippling rift. His heart lurched, the world around him filled with scarlet mist, then cleared with a whispering sound.

He fell forwards onto his hands and knees in the soft moss covering the forest floor. The plant was stony grey, but thriving in the slick black mud. He stood, cursing, irritated at Nathaniel for being so secretive.

He analyzed his surroundings; a clearing ringed by black trees, twisted and devoid of leaves, their pitch-black bark covered with glistening crimson sap sores. A thick grey mist hung heavily in the air, covering the sky above. The dying forest was silent. Draeven bit his lip, his pace quickening slightly. He rarely left the citadel.

“Right. So... Nate,” he muttered to himself, trying to break the oppressive silence.

He stared at the ground, frowning. There were tracks, boot prints, in the dark mud. He could only assume they were Nathaniel’s, or the Lady wouldn’t have brought him to them... But Nathaniel could teleport. Why would he choose to walk?

Draeven slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and followed the tracks. The mist was cold, he shivered through the thin fabric of his shirt, his breath creating a pale haze in the air. He followed the tracks through the twisted trees, and stopped abruptly as they led to a distinctively pale trunk.

Draeven frowned, stepping forward, placing his hand on the moist glistening bark of the white tree. Where the rest of the forest was black as midnight, this particular tree set itself apart. More a carcass than a living plant, its wood was dead, cold, and ivory.

This is where Nathaniel had found him, seven years ago. He’d been a teenager, lost and alone, without a single memory of his past. Nate brought him to the citadel, and having no alternatives, he had stayed. He started writing spells for Nate, a new apprentice at the time, soon after.

Draeven’s heart throbbed. Forgetting the tracks, he stepped back, his breath quickening. The dead tree seemed to unfurl, skeletal claws of wood reaching for him.

He cried out, stepping backwards. His heart beat frantically, white-hot pain raced through his veins. His vision was blurry, the woods suddenly growing, branches and twigs becoming hungry fingers. The once silent mist was suddenly filled with whispering, louder than screaming in the spellwriters tortured mind.

As the pain grew in his chest and his world fell apart a swirl of darkness pierced the white mist, and something stepped forward, to catch him. Purple eyes watched him with concern. He felt his limbs go numb. His friend gripped him tightly as he started to fade away, his body dissolving into droplets of molten light. The Sorcerer murmured softly into his ear.

“Magic wrought, be echoed hence,
Spell once cast, be cast again.”

The darkness lifted, and so did the pain. Golden light flared around him, filling the dark forest with the glint of sunlight. The whispering faded into silence. The spell chased the numbness from his fingertips. Nathaniel held him close, murmuring, his voice full of concern.

“Feeling better?”

“I… why did… the...” Draeven muttered, confused and lost. He blushed slightly as he felt Nathaniel’s warm arms around him. Then comprehension dawned slowly. He hesitated, his eyes widening with shock.

“You... every year, you come here to continue a spell. Every year, at the same time, I start to lose inspiration, and you... you ask me to… and you found me here when…” Draeven searched for words, lost, though one realization was blatantly clear.

“Nate… am... am I a… spell?”

The sorcerer’s purple eyes watched him, glinting with concern. He leaned forward, kissing him softly. Draeven blushed, closing his eyes. Nate stroked his cheek with a thumb, before breaking the kiss, pressing his forehead to the spellwriter’s.

“You started off as a spell, yes. You were... only meant to last a year. I wasn’t thinking. I cast an inspiration spell because I was terrible at writing,” Nathaniel whispered, sounding guilty for once.

“Why did you keep continuing... it?” Draeven asked, shuddering at the thought that ‘it’ was his very existence.

“I got more than I bargained for. You were more human than spell, and then... well, I got sentimentally attached.” He murmured with a grin.

“As in…?”

Nathaniel interrupted him with another tender kiss.

“As in I love you.” he whispered with a smile. Draeven grinned, happy despite himself, but he was still confused. Something wasn’t right.

“Nate… spells don’t think. Or grow. Or …feel.”

The sorcerer laughed.

“Every year, when you wrote a verse to continue the spell, you became more human. Gradually, you became your own spell, rather than mine. You think and feel because... well, you’re the spell that wrote itself.”